


No Ordinary Love

by latinaeinstein (oneforyourfire)



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Exhibitionism, M/M, Oppa Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 22:15:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17272130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneforyourfire/pseuds/latinaeinstein
Summary: Minseok is everythingalways, but especially in these moments. Especially when he’s completely, totally, devastatinglyhis.





	No Ordinary Love

**Author's Note:**

> 2014 fic

Minseok is a presence. A solid. A concrete. A warmth.

Very much _his_.

And it’s the most comfortable, most natural, most beautiful routine waking up like this, Minseok wrapped securely around him. Sleep still fogging his mind, muscles lax, Tao lolls back into the solid firmness of Minseok’s muscles, his body.

Minseok is small— _so_ much smaller than Tao—but he still insists on being the big spoon. Grumbles something about being his hyung. Needing to take _care_ of Tao. It’s his duty as the _oldest_. Making Tao feel warm, protected, loved, grounded with the steady drum of Minseok’s heartbeat pressed tight and reassuring to Tao’s back.

And Tao would protest it further—relish in the bright indignation in Minseok’s eyes, the pink that colors Minseok’s cheeks, blossoms to stain his collarbone and chest, too—but it would only serve as delayed gratification. Because Minseok’s hands are looped tight around Tao's waist, his eyelashes fluttering against Tao’s skin, his hums and sighs ghosting over Tao’s goosebumped hairline.

And he’s a presence. A solid. A concrete. A warmth. Tiding him over from too-short sleep, too-fleeting dreams towards too-heavy schedules, too-pressing demands.

Minseok is everything _always_ , but especially in these moments. Especially when he’s completely, totally, devastatingly _his_.

Tao arches into the kiss of Minseok’s eyelashes. The quiet, lilting, affectionate way that Minseok murmurs Tao’s name. And then Minseok’s lips are kissing, too. Teasing, chaste tiny presses coupling with dizzying little nips, the barest scrape of teeth. And Tao is gasping, curling back closer as his mouth falls open in a breathy moan. Minseok chuckles, drags his tongue across trembling skin, tugs insistently at Tao’s shirt to mouth at his shoulder, too.

Tao revels in the teasing fondness of Minseok’s morningtime caresses, relishes the warm weight of his smaller limbs, the wet heat sending jolts of lazy pleasure along Tao's skin. Tao, still hard more from pure physiology than actual need but fast approaching an _actual_ erection, whines Minseok’s name in a breathless question. _Will you? Can you? Please. Just please_.

This is the most effective wakeup. More potent than caffeine. More persuasive than the alarm blaring suddenly, sharply to interrupt their perfect morning languor.

Tao wants more, pleas in a whisper for it, but Minseok gropes back to shut off their alarm instead. He reminds him with a wet lingering suck that they have dance practice soon, and Tao begrudges him his responsibility, his duty. He tugs Minseok forward by the wrist, and Minseok's breath leaves him in a quiet rush. He nuzzles his nose briefly, indulging as he whispers about how much he loves him, what he wants to do once they have time. His lips brush over Tao’s skin as he promises in low, drugging Korean. And in between wet kisses, Tao can make out something about Minseok’s tongue, Tao’s cock, Tao’s legs around Minseok’s shoulders. Tao moans again. Louder this time, body arching back, so his ass brushes against Minseok’s own straining erection. He can feel it even through the layers of fabric, the pressure of it a quiet, hot, hot reminder and reassurance, and Tao grinds back purposefully, moans for show this time.

And then Minseok’s disengaging with a hollow, resounding pop, a consoling pat to Tao’s plaid-covered thigh.

And Minseok is rising, and Tao is complaining, rolling over to drink in the welcome, familiar sight of Minseok newly awakened, with bedhead, the faintest stubble along his jawline, the sleepiness hanging heavy on his dark eyelashes. Boldly bare and beautiful.

Minseok smiles at him in almost apology, murmuring out a quick “later” as he stands, and Tao continues to grumble, muttering curses but pausing long enough to stretch long and languid like a cat, releasing the tension in his muscles. Minseok mimics his movements, raises his arms above his head, exposing a long, lean line of pale, smooth skin as he strains upwards.

“Oppa,” Tao had moaned last night. Needy, hot, spread out across their combined mattresses, too tired to do anything more than tilt his hips up, invite Minseok harder, faster, _more_ , please.

“Oppa,” he says now, breathy, low, and Minseok narrows his eyes, pops out his ass he sinks down to touch his socked toes.

 

Minseok is a presence. A solid. A concrete. A warmth. But also a tease. Distraction. _Torture_.

And it only continues at breakfast, Minseok’s usual reticence and reluctance transforming into something playful, if not cruel as he hums— _moans_ —around his food, dabs excess sauce off his mouth with a certain sinful flourish, sipping his iced coffee through a straw as he catches Tao’s eyes. Sitting across from him, Tao spends the entire meal staring at Minseok’s mouth, imagining and remembering how those lips, that tongue, those teeth feel, taste. Tao choke-inhales his own rice and eggs.

And it grows at dance practice where Minseok moves in direct provocation, slow, sensual grace. Minseok _knows_ he looks good, bends forward within his line of sight, raises his eyebrow, bites his bottom lip, swivels, dips, rolls. It takes everything for Tao not to scramble forward, tug Minseok into a storage room. Kiss him breathless. Touch him needy. Drop to his knees and have Minseok tugging at his hair, moans mixing with the slick slurps of Tao’s mouth, the helpless squeak of Minseok’s sneakers against the wood panels, the clattering of broom handles as Minseok writhes and pitches helpless and heedless. It takes everything for Tao not to claim and demand.

And it’s worse yet in the shower, after practice, Minseok using age to his advantage, Tao latching on immediately. Minseok stumbles after him into the bathroom as they wrestle off their sweat-slick clothes, turn the water punishingly hot to sooth their aches.

Minseok’s always been his prefered shower partner. Even before they had _this_. Even when the motives weren’t ulterior. When Tao was just endeared by Minseok’s penchant for singing in the shower, his tendency to fuss over Tao, helping him scrub the hard to reach places on his back, standing up on his tiptoes to massage shampoo into Tao’s scalp.

Minseok was his favorite even before showers involved more purposeful, passionate, possessive encounters. Even before there were heated, stolen kisses, heated, stolen touches, muffled orgasms echoing off the shower tiles.

But now, in the _after_ , Minseok, small as he is, wrestles into Tao’s space, blinking up playful and falsely coy as he glides hands down Tao’s chest, thumbs at his nipples, grips at his hips. Minseok manhandles him bodily, further underneath the hot spray of water. Tao braces himself against the wall as Minseok crowds into him.

And the way the steam halos, the way the water clings. It makes Tao head hazy, his skin hot, tight with _want_.

Minseok is a presence. A solid. A concrete. A warmth. But too much. Minseok is so _much_ sometimes. Tao feels too much. And this is exactly how Minseok likes him. Naked and already panting at just the prospect, eager as he meets Minseok’s eyes, muscles curling forward in easy compliance.

He wants it. He wants him.

Tao lolls his head forward with a breathy plea as Minseok drops a teasing suck to his collarbone. Warm, succulent, but not enough sting, to mark. (Tao is _aching_ for both). The caress registers with a dull throb of pleasure as soapy hands glide teasingly down Tao’s sides.

And Minseok’s hands are small, but solid, slippery as they slide down his bare skin. The teasing brush has Tao stirring against Minseok’s thigh, slumping forward for more. “Touch me, hyung,” he breathes, begs.

Minseok’s fingers tighten around his hipbones, fingernails biting into his skin. Tao’s lips part with a soft moan at the potent rush of heat.

Tao noses at the sudsy crown of Minseok’s head, breathing harsh as Minseok relents, wrapping a too-loose fist around his half-hard erection. Minseok tugs once, twice, as his own cock brushes against Tao’s thigh.

And Tao’s hand curls around Minseok’s neck, thumbing at Minseok’s bobbing Adam’s apple as he tilts Minseok’s head upward for a needy kiss, grinding harder into his grasp, gasping. “Minseok,” he moans. “ _Oppa_.”

Minseok inhales sharply, grinds forward, too. His fist skates even faster, and Tao drops his own hand to wrap around Minseok. He is hot and pulsing against Tao’s slick skin. And Tao hopes—fucking _prays_ —that none of the other members, managers have to take a leak.

He can still hear the muffled thrum of activity outside the door—disembodied voices, footsteps—but the spray of water, the quiet echo of Minseok’s soft bitten off sighs, his own moans, and the deafening pound of his own heartbreak serve to drown them out. Everything narrows down into this one focal point, this acute need. He needs to finish this. He need to come.

 

“Please,” he breathes, shifting to bite on Minseok’s neck, pressing the request into the hollow of Minseok’s throat, circling his hips, moans stuttering into warm, wet, perfect skin. Minseok tugs him by the hair at the nape of his neck, fuses their mouths together once more, swallowing Tao’s every whiny, hitching moan.

And this is exactly exactly exactly what Tao wants. “Don’t stop,” he urges. “Please—don’t ever stop.”

But Minseok—Minseok the tease, the responsible hyung—does. He stops it from going further, from going _exactly_ where it needs to go.

“They’re going to be knocking on the door for lunch, Taozi,” he intones, words brushing against Tao’s open, trembling mouth. Tao shakes his head, tries to tug him closer—he’s stronger, manages to wrap an arm around Minseok’s waist, hold him there, impossibly, beautifully, perfectly close—but Minseok pulls away with a lilting laugh, an airy breath. Tao’s cock twitches with want, twitches in indignation at another thwarted encounter, an interrupted would-be climax. The affirmtation, the affection, the attention he so desperately craves.

Minseok is affected, too, he knows. Tao felt. He can still _see_. Minseok is half-hard, eyes and fingertips lingering even as he opens the shower curtain and stumbles out of the bathtub. So Tao reaches out, scrapes his fingernails across Minseok’s wrist, whines another unnecessary “oppa.” He relishes in the slight hitch in Minseok’s breathing as the elder disengages, towel-dries his hair.

Tao follows clumsily, gropes for a towel, too, but still presses his body tight against Minseok’s. Skin slick, steam from the shower, he tilts his head down, looms over Minseok, bare skin to bare skin. Minseok’s black eyelashes flutter in the prettiest, most endearingly beautiful, affected way.

“Lunch,” Minseok reminds him, with less heat, more want in his tone this time, and Tao kisses him once for good measure. Chaste and hard, but lingering. Tao parts his lips the slightest, moans deliberately against the seam of Minseok’s mouth.

Minseok groans, almost whimpers, but disengages with a soft hum, and Tao wraps a towel around his waist, following him into their shared room with a scowl.

They change in relative silence. Basketball shorts, tank tops. And Tao wills his erection away through sheer force of will as he glances back to see Minseok slathering lotion on his arms.

 

Minseok is a kinder at lunch. A presence. A solid. A concrete. A warmth. But a comfort, too. He makes it up to him, Tao thinks, or tries to. Sitting beside him, resting his hand occasionally on Tao’s thigh, squeezing hard, turning to smile up at him in between mouthfuls of food.

His eyes twinkle in the soft afternoon light, and his hand is warm and heavy and reassuring, steady. Minseok cradles Tao’s wrist as they clean up, flip through their scripts, curl into one another on the couch to watch dramas afterwards. Minseok plays idly with his fingers, traces circles with his thumb across Tao’s knuckles. The big spoon once more, on their velveteen blue couch, Minseok coaxes Tao to turns midepisode. He smiles more with his eyes than his mouth as he cards his fingers through Tao’s hair, brushing back black bangs. His chest brushes against Tao’s with every exhale as he leans forward to press a quiet, unassuming kiss to Tao’s nose. Tao—ever hungry for more—hooks an elbow behind Minseok’s back, arm brushing against upholstery, bare skin to coax Minseok even closer. The elder complies with a small laugh, tilts his head to kiss Tao’s left cheekbone, the corner of his jaw, making his way towards his ear.

“Yoga?” he breathes, warm breath tickling against Tao’s skin, whispering over his still damp hair, and Tao shivers.

Tao marks his assent with a high pitched whine as Minseok sucks on his earlobe, shoves on his chest to force him off the couch.

 

Yoga is wholly theirs. If they have no schedules to attend (Yixing, Yifan had left earlier to attend their own), if there are no emotional traumas for Minseok to help repair, no further drama episodes to marathon, no soccer or coffee or movie dates for either party to attend, yoga belongs to _them_.

They move their mattress aside, pop a DVD into Tao’s laptop. And fabric loose, face bare, Minseok is still the most beautiful being Tao has ever beheld.

The room is theirs, this moment, too. Even if Tao can hear Lu Han’s, Jongdae’s ugly, discordant laughter through the door.

Minseok bends forward, spine arching, cotton stretching tight over his body, as he follows the pretty, bubbly blonde instructor on screen. She’s on mute. The poses more than familiar, and Tao twists beside him, smiles at him. Downward dog, Mountain, Warrior, Tree, Triangle, Cobra, Bridge.

The last pose has Minseok bending back, his hips—his crotch—tilting enticingly in Tao’s line of sight, and Tao leans forward to help, supporting his weight, angling Minseok’s body.

Minseok parts his legs, drops his waist, breaks the position completely. He lets out this soft, broken sound. Deliberately, Tao can tell—Minseok never really does anything by accident—by the teasing quirk of his lips, the challenging lift of his eyebrow. Tao squeezes his kneecap, and Minseok repeats the sound, frequency, volume increasing as Tao skates his hands up Minseok’s firm thigh.

They’re sounds to get Tao riled up, reminders of the other moments that are completely theirs. And they’re effective, sparking a sudden crackle of arousal. They have heat blooming in his veins, have Tao’s skin clenching, screaming at the soft exhalations.

Minseok falls back on his elbows, splaying open. He spreads his bent knees, and Tao falls forward, presses down on one lean, toned leg until Minseok sighs. Tao retreats, and Minseok tenses and releases the muscle with a breathy groan.

He motions for Tao to repeat the motion. Tao’s hand falls heavy and purposeful on Minseok’s thigh, guiding his movement. “Can’t help yourself,” Minseok breathes, pressing upwards, _towards_ the touch, neck limp, tone teasing as he blinks up at Tao. “But it’s okay. I like it when you want me.” His muscles strain against Tao’s fingertips, shifting beneath the surface.

“I always, always want you,” Tao breathes, hand sliding even higher, cupping the thickest part of Minseok’s thigh, meeting his warm, clear eyes.

“I always want you, too.”

And there’s the tension in Tao’s muscles, the ache in his limbs from dance practice, _want_ as Minseok urges him harder, pink lips parted near Tao’s own.

“Your hands,” he supplies softly, almost shyly, breathlessly, “they feel so good on my body. Keep touching me.”

And Tao abandons all pretense, then. He braces his weight with one elbow, teases underneath cotton, over smooth, warm skin. Higher and higher until he’s tracing circles along the seam of Minseok’s inner thigh. Minseok moans, and Tao clings to him, hand sliding underneath Minseok’s back to tilt him upwards, bring him closer .

“Wanna give them something to jerk off to?” Minseok whispers. Tao nods jerkily, skates his free hand higher. Minseok isn’t wearing underwear, and Tao shifts to cup Minseok through his shorts, circles his thumb along the outline, sure to catch it on crown of Minseok’s cock, the sensitive underside.

Minseok writhes up with another sound. Breathy, but no less loud, he's distressingly affected. Tao skates his fingers faster, palm running up the length, the friction heating his own skin, causing Minseok to whimper, jerk shakily into his hold. Tao’s hand slides free to fumble with his own pants. He gets them to midthigh, falls forward to kiss at Minseok’s sternum as he grinds downward. Minseok tugs urgently at Tao's tanktop, mouths at his shoulder. He bites down sharply, and Tao whimpers, arching towards the exquisite, acute pleasure-pain and possession.

And there on the floor of their bedroom, on the floral rug, Minseok is a presence. A solid. A concrete. A warmth. A focus. Tao’s _everything_. And there’s the soft press of Minseok's lips, the sharp cut of teeth as Minseok nips at Tao’s collarbone, his nipple. There’s the heady pressure of Minseok’s straining erection against his own.

The perfection of it has Tao biting down on warm, pale skin, too, Minseok’s throat, as his breath hitches on a long drawn out moan. Minseok flips their positions easily, kneecaps digging in Tao’s spread thighs as his hands tighten around Tao’s waist, urging him upwards, setting the pace into something increasingly frantic, hard, fast, relentless.

Tao is chasing the high, basking in the pleasure, clinging fast as he moans.

He groans in protest, distress when there's a knock on the door. He sobs, shakes his head, grip tightening. He grasps at Minseok’s loose cotton clothing, the fabric tacky in his sweaty palms. “No,” he insists. “No, Minseok hyung, please.”

But Minseok sighs, rolls over. Makes a show of being mildly disappointed, but not entirely put out. (Tao can see his erection, the darker spot on Minseok’s clothes where precome has dampened the fabric. Tao knows that Minseok is _dying_ for this too, body aching in just the same way. And please, they can just—they don’t _have_ to go. They don’t, please, Minseok hyung)

“Dinner,” Lu Han is saying, muffled through the door. “Yifan ordered takeout.”

“ _I’ll_ buy you food,” Tao promises, reckless, pitchy, _hard_. He’s so fucking _hard_. “I’ll—whatever you want—we can order—please please please, Minseok hyung.”

But Minseok is already extricating himself, limb by limb, calling out a loud, resounding, final “Coming.”

And no, no, _no_. Tao isn’t very good at waiting his turn. Isn’t patient enough for delayed gratification. Especially not when he’s been denied this many times. No, he’s heedless, desperate, clinging tight in encouragement, provocation, persuasion, moaning low in blatant lust. He positions his body the way he knows Minseok likes, splayed limbs, parted lips, palming his own cock, even as he reasons. “I’ll—your chores. I’ll keep the room clean. I’ll—”

Minseok wipes at his own mouth, grips Tao’s wrist, places it near Tao’s ribs inside. He leans forward, on his haunches to right Tao’s pants. The elastic snaps, stings against Tao’s waist. Tao sits up, grinds forward into nothing.

“No, hyung, _oppa_ , please—I—”

Minseok makes to rise, and Tao tugs him back forcefully. “Fuck Lu Han,” he urges. “Fuck them, please, hyung.”

“I’d rather just fuck you,” he whispers, and Tao groans in agreement. He spreads his legs again in invitation.

Lu Han is still outside, and Tao knows he can hear. But he doesn’t _care_.

“ _Please_. Fuck me _please_.”

“You’ll need your strength,” Minseok laughs instead. He pauses to drag his teeth across Tao’s jawline, soothing, placating, but not not not indulging fully. “I promise. I _promise_. I want you, too.”

“Hyung,” Tao insists.

“Tonight,” Minseok murmurs softly, nose nuzzling briefly against his own. “Right now let’s eat.”

 

Minseok is a presence. A solid. A concrete. A warmth. He's been a security blanket, too, a salve to the homesickness. A cheerleader, a hand holder, his tiny hyung. A cuddle, exercise, shower buddy.

Tao _needs_ him.

Even though he doesn’t _like_ to. Need—love, want, beg—more. He’s shameless, Sehun has laughed. Demanding, spoiled, coddled, Jongdae has chided. A brat, consensus seems to state. Tao is ostensibly an only child, proud and petulant as a result. Tao craves affection, attention, validation, affirmation at all times. He wants to be the favorite. The most important. Wants it declared repeatedly, too.

But Minseok doesn’t talk much, masks his emotions in hidden touches, carefree, secret laughs, lilting remarks. He drips his affection in the quiet moments, the intimate touches, too cursory, too infrequent. And Tao doesn’t like the quietness of Minseok’s affection, doesn’t like how tacit, understated, muted his love can be. It leaves Tao insecure, anxious, caught up in the tumult of his own very strong, very obvious emotions.

Minseok is so very easy to love. So perfect. Loving Minseok is natural, easy, makes perfect sense. But being secure in it, in the in-betweens, that’s harder. And Minseok, Minseok was never going to be a safe enough choice.

They’ve been doing this for a while. Long enough for Tao to know it counts. It had blossomed from lingering touches, soft kisses just shy of Tao’s mouth into something better, more permanent, exclusive, hotter, harder, deeper. Lines crossed one night, both of them stutter-stepping into something no longer innocuous, platonic, and comforting, Minseok touching Tao like he had been _aching_ , Tao trembling at clear heat, perfect liquid eyes, falling falling falling and feeling feeling feeling. So much so fast so hard.

And even now, after all these months, Tao wants it known. Wants it acknowledged. Affirmed proudly. Emblazoned across the stars. Transmitted across computer screens, radio waves.

Because Tao _lives_ for the moments when Minseok is in awe of him. Absorbed completely in him. When he hugs him, holds him, kisses him, fucks him. When he cradles him, kisses his eyelids, thumbs at his cheekbones, murmurs how much he loves him. But he also needs to know that these moments are _only_ his own. Needs moments—public moments—that underscore their privacy, intimacy, possession, _love_.

And this, _this_ has been trying his patience.

Thrice denied, Tao resents, doubts. And there’s a horrible prickling of jealousy burning up the nape of his neck.

Tao makes sure to glare at Lu Han, redirecting his anger, getting back at the elder by scooping more than his share of meat into his own bowl, elbowing Lu Han occasionally on purpose, interrupting him whenever he opens his mouth to speak, moving bodily to isolate him from the rest of the group.

Tao knows he’s veering on dangerous territory, and Yifan turns to give him a warning glance. He won’t _do_ anything, he’s too soft on him, but Tao eases up, nonetheless. He stares at his own food, at the wall, at the awful garage store paintings that Yixing insisted on hanging up in their kitchen, and he bites his tongue to keep from mocking Lu Han’s excited stutter, bringing up the fact that his voice _cracked_ during their last studio practice.

Minseok catches Tao’s eyes at one point, holds them, smiles.

It soothes him some. Works to calm him down.

Lu Han, aware of the tension, the cause, his own indirect involvement, offers to clear the table, wash dishes, and Tao shoots him an apologetic look as Minseok tugs him into the room. Minseok pauses only briefly to lock the door before tugging on his hair, tugging him down towards his mouth, then shoving him into bed.

 

Minseok is a presence. A solid. A concrete. A warmth. And like this, Minseok is also a vortex, hypnotic persuasion, drugging attraction, a gravitational pull. Tao is helpless to resist, compelled closer and closer. His legs fall open easily, hook around Minseok’s narrow waist, drag him closer.

They’ve barely started, barely gotten to tearing at their clothes, barely kissed, and Tao’’s already so wrecked, pliant, so good and ready and needy. He _needs_ this, and Minseok is finally finally conceding, allowing, giving giving giving.

It’s been hours in the making, and Minseok’s hair looks black in the light, and his eyes, eyebrows, lips are dark and beautiful and promising. The lust has been a slow churn, a steady burn, but it flares with a sudden jolt of heat as Minseok tugs at Tao’s hair, licks his way down the column of his throat.

“We have time,” Minseok whispers against his pulsepoint, pulling away only long enough to tug at dark fabric, skimming his fingers cruel and teasing. “I’ve locked the door.”

Minseok sucks on his collarbone, thumbs at Tao’s nipples. His touches are too much, not enough. Not where he needs them to be, not as hard as he likes. Tao arches in encouragement, breathes desperately in lust.

He digs his blunt fingernails into Minseok's biceps, tilts his neck up and bares his throat as he moans, kicks off his own boxers and shorts.

Minseok drags his hot mouth, warm hands down Tao’s trembling body. He noses at Tao’s navel, as Tao wraps quivering legs around the small, solid warmth of Minseok’s waist. The starched cotton is scratchy, uncomfortable against Tao’s heated, oversensitive skin.

Minseok kisses his knee, angles Tao’s body further. Tao is naked, exposed, no less eager, no less needy. Minseok is still—distressingly—fully-dressed, sliding down to lick at Tao’s aching erection.

Minseok’s mouth is teasing, fleeting, hot, wet. He slides the soft skin of his philtrum along Tao’s aching erection, dragging it against crown of Tao’s cock as he licks at the underside. Minseok hums, shifts to mouth smooth and filthy along Tao’s balls.

His fingers are deceptively small, appear weak, but they are skittering along his thighs in quiet warning, keeping him still, _locked_ , all the more desperate for it.

Minseok hollows out his cheeks, bobs up and down, and Tao groans at the warm, wet suction, the quiet little hums as Minseok rises and descends. Tao tangles his fingers into Minseok's hair, tugs, and Minseok moans, jaw slackening, saliva dribbling out of his slick, swollen lips. Minseok pulls back to focus on the crown. His brows furrow in concentration, and his eyes burn up at Tao as his tongue slides slowly, sinfully along the head of Tao’s cock.

Tao’s heady is dizzy with want, his fingers clumsy with lust.

Minseok licks up the precome beading at the slit, swirling his tongue as he flutters his fingers further down, past the base of his cock, over the seam of his balls. They slide down down down, until he’s teasing at Tao’s rim, tapping his fingers, dragging in a shiver-inducing caress as he hollows his cheeks, swallows around Tao’s cock.

And there’s only the slick, velvet warmth of his tongue, the tight suction engulfing his length, searing him open, burning him alive. Minseok’s pace quickens, wet sounds audible over the breathy resonance of Tao’s own moans.

Minseok pushes the first knuckle of his pinkie inside, and the shock of it has Tao pitching forward sharply, pulling at soft brown locks as he bucks forward once, twice, thrice, coming with a loud moan.

Minseok hums, smug even with Tao’s cock still pulsing inside his mouth. He pulls back, and Tao’s chin crashes against his chest as he clambers to see. His jaw drops slack at the sight, opening with a filthy, _imploring_ whine.

Minseok’s hair is mussed up, his cheeks flushed, his eyes glazed. And his mouth, his small beautiful mouth is pink, swollen, parted to showcase where some of Tao’s come is still coating his tongue.

Tao bites back a groan as Minseok curls his tongue, swipes it slowly over his plump bottom lip. Tao is rapt, fixated, enthralled. His hips jerk forward in weak want, and Minseok chuckles. His fingers stutter-step down Tao’s thighs, nails dragging along the fine hair, delicate skin.

“Do you think you can get hard again? For me, Tao?”

His touches are pointed, precise.

“Yes,” he gasps. “ _Yes_.”

Minseok peels off his tanktop, his shirt. And he drapes his body across Tao’s, forehead to forehead, inch to inch. "Hard," he urges, rubbing along Tao's hip, licking at his jawline.

And Tao _is_. At least approaching it, cock twitching in interest anew, pulsing as Minseok tilts up to kiss him hard and deep. His fingers resume their previous occupation, tapping, tracing, teasing. Tao whimpers as Minseok’s fingernail scrapes against the sensitive, trembling skin of his entrance. Minseok sucks on his tongue as he gropes for the lube beneath their pillow, slicking his hand easily with a practiced precision. He fucks his first finger inside. Tao jerks, clenches, and Minseok is sliding it even further. He disengages with a filthy suck to Tao’s bottom lip, the dizzying drag of teeth. Minseok focuses on Tao’s throat as he eases another inside. He scissors his fingers, drags, scrapes, searches, _curls_ deliciously. Minseok works him open finger by finger, until Tao is writhing back, begging helplessly to be fucked. He tries for shameless, sensual, persuasive. Probably comes off whiny, desperate, loud. So fucking loud.

And it’s some sort of game for Minseok. Making Tao desperate and needy, having him good and pliant and begging before Minseok even _considers_ fucking him. And Tao is just eager to comply. Be as loud and open and responsive as Minseok needs him to be. He spreads his legs obscenely wide, moaning wantonly. “Fuck me,” Tao urges breathlessly. “Please just— _fuck_ me.”

And this is part of their game, too. Minseok’s deliberation, hesitance, subsequent indulgence, approval. Tao knows he’s a catch, knows he looks good, but it’s better when Minseok acknowledges it. Minseok is always taciturn. But when he’s turned on, tantalizingly, tortuously so, his praises fall hot and wet across Tao’s goosebumped skin.

“Tell me,” he groans, and Minseok smirks against his skin. “Tell me,” he insists, nonetheless, _needing_ the words. “Tell me and _fuck_ me.”

“You’re perfect,” Minseok reassures him, hooking Tao’s knees around his shoulders, fingers sliding out of Tao’s body with a filthy squelch. Tao licks his palm, reaches out to grip Minseok’s cock, urging him again, voice huskier, demands stilted. “You’re _everything_ ,” Minseok groans. "I always— always want you."

He brushes Tao’s hand away, and Tao is thrumming with need, flushed with approval, acceptance, affirmation, the fact that he’s _earned_ it as Minseok fucks forward with a smooth, sinful roll of his hips.

Minseok is hot, pulsing, thick inside of him, and Tao moans even as the breath is punched out of his lungs.

And it’s not always like this. Minseok equally content to spread his legs for Tao, tug hard at his hair as he writhes slowly, torturously on Tao’s cock, movements exquisitely fluid, achingly smooth. Minseok likes to drag it out even when it _is_ like this, too, his thrusts shallow and teasing and so so so painfully slow that Tao is scratching at his back, sobbing for more, cursing in reverent Mandarin.

But it’s sloppier now. Needier. Hotter. Tension built up and up and up until it’s spilling over.  
Minseok’s motions are jerky, almost clumsy, lack a certain finesse. But there’s still delicate beauty in the arch of his spine, the swell of his lips, the darkness in the furrow of his eyebrows, the aching, exquisite drag of his cock inside of Tao’s body.

And it’s still perfect, he’s still perfect. This is exactly what Tao needs.

Minseok drives into him hard, fast, _perfect_ , and he has sobs dripping from Tao’s lips.

Because it’s the sweetest agony, the most delicious ache, Minseok braced over him, arms trembling from exertion as he rocks into him, fucks him open.

Tao likes the heavy, warm pressure, the rushed, frantic movements, the way Minseok makes him feel small, helpless, but wanted, beautiful. Skin overheated, whine low in his throat, Tao bends to Minseok’s whims. Easy and eager and enthusiastic as the elder lays a succulent kiss on the hollow of his throat, pants into his skin, fucks him just _right_.

Minseok pushes Tao higher onto the mattress, changes his angle, cock nudging at Tao’s prostate, and Tao drags red lines down the length of Minseok’s back. Then Minseok’s fingers are linking with his, palm to palm, over Tao’s head. Steadying, anchoring as Tao moans, is broken broken broken.

Tao feels most loved. Exactly like this. He's reduced to a mess for this.

“I love you,” he manages, breath hiccuping in his throat as the smooth skin of Minseok’s cock drags against Tao’s cock. He pitches forward at the barest, most enticing friction, tilting his hips up, chasing the sensation. “I love you, hyung. So—fuck—so fucking much.”

And Minseok replies in kind. Love informs, imbues, infuses every brush of his skin against Tao’s. Minseok tells him with his eyes, with his body, with his movements, with his words, too.

“I love you,” he groans out, biting down on Tao’s sternum—hard, hard enough to leave a mark, hard enough to swing—as he swivels his hips, grinds down purposefully. Minseok releases one of Tao’s hands, braces himself on one trembling, shifting, straining arm as he fits a hand between their bodies, tugs at Tao’s cock in quick, clumsy jerks.

Tao comes for the second time that night, Minseok’s name high in his throat as he pulses into his warm, small, perfect grip. Minseok soothes him through it with fluid snaps of his hips, hot words, warm touches.

He pulls out with a groan, and Tao tilts his hips up, spreading his raised knees, expecting it, reveling in it. Minseok tugs off his condom, braces himself on Tao’s knee, moaning into the sweaty skin as he strokes at his own cock. It takes two tugs, one particularly low and husky “oppa” for Minseok to climax, painting white against the flushed tan of Tao’s stomach. He collapses with his own moan, soft, sweet, and Tao holds out his arms for him.

Strung out, Minseok lets himself be cradled, coddled, smiling at Tao, lazy, content, post-coital. For a few brief moments, eyelashes fluttering as Tao thumbs at his flushed, round cheeks, kisses his nose, his eyelids the corner of his mouth.

And then Minseok is maneuvering with a small, breathless reminder of “I’m the hyung.” His limbs are slow-moving, but demanding, and Tao bends easily as always.

Minseok finds that perfect place. From where he’s carved out in between Tao’s neck and shoulder. He rests his chin against Tao’s skin, hums against the hollow of his throat, eyelashes tickling along Tao’s jawline as he whispers his name over and over again.

Minseok is a presence. A solid. A concrete. A warmth. His love. And Tao melts back into him, languid and needy and needed, sighing as the elder hums his name, dances his fingers along Tao’s warm, sated skin.

And Minseok is everything _always_ , but especially in these moments. Especially when he’s completely, totally, devastatingly _his_.


End file.
